


Happy Birthday

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad thinks you need therapy because on his birthday he didn’t wake up with your head between his legs the way he has for the past seven years or so</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

Some days just aren’t worth chewing through the leather straps.

The metaphoric leather straps, of course. Nobody here is all the way crazy yet. Even if Brad keeps saying, “Maybe. You know. Maybe therapy?”

He says it in the same way he says, “Maybe. You know. Maybe we could try bondage again tonight?”

The same way he says, “Maybe we could get takeout?”

You just know he doesn’t really care either way. There’s not even a tone in his voice. You couldn’t even describe it as blank.

Maybe therapy?

This is because on Brad’s birthday he didn’t wake up with your head between his legs the way he has for the past seven years or so. It’s a tradition which, like promises, are made to be broken.

So you slept right through what should have been his sexy birthday wake up. You slept right through his slamming around the bedroom then his stomping downstairs then stomping back into the bedroom and his muttering about making his own god damn birthday breakfast.

This doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you. You’re just tired. And you’re trying to remember the last time Brad did anything for you.

On your birthday this year he was hung over from a night of heavy drinking with the guitarist of some band. So he slept through the entire day. You went out with Mike instead, you went out for dinner. You did all the things Brad was too fucked up to do. Like watch you open your presents.

Or kiss you happy birthday.

But that’s your little secret. Brad has his, you have yours.

So now. Now it’s time for the dinner you dug through every recipe book you’ve ever bought to cook for him. You hate to sound like an oppressed housewife, but you’ve slaved over this damn meal. And the dessert that goes with it. Home made, all of it.

You set the table, lit candles, things you never do. But you only turn thirty once, might as well make it good.

You’re sitting at the table with Brad opposite you. You admiring your own good work, him digging in without a care. With a mouthful of half masticated whatever Brad says, “I was thinking, you know. Maybe. You know. Maybe therapy?”

You try to tune him out, sip your wine.

“Couple’s therapy is what I mean.” Brad is saying in the same way he says, the ball gag is what I mean.

“We don’t need therapy.”

“Maybe we don’t.”

The food tastes great. But there’s a bitterness to it. That’s probably just Brad.

“Okay then,” you say, waiting until you’re done chewing like your mom always taught you before you speak, “I don’t need therapy either.”

“You’re so distant.”

It’s easy to be distant when your partner doesn’t notice when you enter a room. When anything you say is either ignored or ridiculed it’s easy to just stop trying to make conversation. When you have to ask each other if you feel like having sex, when nothing is spontaneous and when you try to make them feel as new and shiny as they used to Brad says, “Tomorrow. I’m pretty tired right now.”

When nothing fits anymore and the idea of either of you having an affair is no longer as absurd as it was when you both first said “I love you,” it’s easy to be distant.

“So you do care!” You snort, sipping your wine. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I do love you, Chester.” Brad says as if you doubted him. You do, but you’ve never said it out loud. Don’t see the point. He’ll get around it somehow.

“I love you too,” You say. It isn’t a lie. You do love him. But today, sitting at the table set with the meal you spent hours over, sitting in awkward silence you don’t know how to break anymore. Sitting here, you wonder why you even got out of bed.

You say, “Happy birthday.” You say, “I have dessert in the kitchen. Then we can go to bed.” Smile hopefully, try to make things okay.

Brad shrugs, and it’s that toneless voice again, “Sure,” he says, “good idea.”


End file.
